


oh, and when i think

by thewriteroflostcauses



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-07
Updated: 2012-07-07
Packaged: 2017-11-09 09:31:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/453972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewriteroflostcauses/pseuds/thewriteroflostcauses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The dingy hotel around him is horribly empty, the smell of mothballs and freshly washed linen wafting up his nose and killing his senses. Sam is out. Probably doing his job. <em>Their</em> job. Sam is out, and he's acting like Dean hasn't recently wrenched him right out of the hands of Lucifer himself, like Death hadn't been caging him just hours before. Like a life hadn't been lost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	oh, and when i think

It only hurts when he thinks about it.

That's what Dean keeps telling himself, anyway. Because if he doesn't think about it, if it isn't on his mind or lingering in his wishful thoughts, then there's no possible way it can be detrimental to him. So he's trying so hard not to dwell on it anymore. All he wants is to get drunk, and isn't that such a great possibility right now when there's a bottle of Jack in his hand, staring him in the face?

He can't think about it if he's shit faced.

The dingy hotel around him is horribly empty, the smell of mothballs and freshly washed linen wafting up his nose and killing his senses. Sam is out. Probably doing his job. _Their_ job. Sam is out, and he's acting like Dean hasn't recently wrenched him right out of the hands of Lucifer himself, like Death hadn't been caging him just hours before. Like a life hadn't been lost.

 _But he isn't going to think about it_.

Jack is the only man he's going to be thinking about right now. Mr. Daniels feels warm sliding down his throat too, fuck you very much, and tastes a hell of a lot better than the alternative, which he shouldn't, isn't, won't be thinking about.

Dean Winchester is stronger than this, he really is, but sometimes he doesn't know why he does what he does. Saving lives? How can that be it when they've seen so many more lives tossed down the drain and lost to the unknown? People he has loved, cared about, needed --why is is that he can protect a stranger, but he can't protect someone that means something to him? His head falls forward onto the surface of the small table, and he sucks in a sharp breath that feels like metal shooting down his throat and penetrating his lungs.

He'd gotten attached. That's all this was. A few one night stands, a pair of hands that he'd just gotten too accustomed to, lips that had always tasted too sweet on his own. Dean had become so used to it that it just hurt to lose, and there was simply nothing else to it.

And if that was a lie, then no one else had to know.

Dean can feel the burn on his face and he knows that he's crying before he can even do anything to stop it. He's strong, he's strong, he's _strong_ \-- it just isn't his fault that this was more than his strength could take. He hadn't meant to fall in love with Castiel, and he hadn't meant to let him die, because that was his fault, maybe he could have done something, could have protected him. The bottle of Jack meets the table with a shatter and Dean bites the inside of his lip to stop himself from crying out, since there are people in the room next door.

He misses that trench coat, though. He misses that snarky yet endearing attitude. He misses that cluelessness by his side, the mindless flirting, the way that tanned body had felt so smooth and fragile under the grip and search of his hands. Dean would give anything to have it all back. To be able to fix this.

It only hurts when he thinks about it. And the problem with that is that he's _always_ thinking about it.


End file.
